Homecoming
by warriorformerlyknownasprince
Summary: Trunks returns home after the defeat of Cell.


The few that had survived had communed. The city was comprised of refugees from all over, driven from their homes by the terror and destruction wrought by the cyborg duo named simply Prototypes Seventeen and Eighteen.

Trunks surveyed the ground that rushed beneath him, littered with the crumbled remains of human lives. Dr. Gero had accomplished his goal and more: he had brutalized the terrain, scarred humanity, and murdered Earth's heroes and guardian. Goku was long dead, his grave unmarked in the rubble of Mt. Paotzu, buried along with the memory of a small cottage and a sharp-tongued, black-haired woman named ChiChi. The Son's legacy, Gohan, had also fallen victim to the unfeeling machines.

But life was a stubborn thing, and Trunks smiled as he landed to walk the streets of what used to be the shining metropolis of West City. Despite all that had transpired, there were people, and they were rebuilding.

The twin's terrible reign had ended at Trunks' capable hands. His experiences in the past had equipped him with tremendous power and an unshakable confidence. They had fallen once before, and he had risen up to face a villain worse then even they.

"Ma!" He called into the mansion, returning the key to his front jacket pocket and shutting the door behind him. It felt strange – he had been gone for so long, it was surreal to be home. Many times during his travels he had fingered the house key through fabric of his jacket, wondering if he would ever need it again.

She stood tentatively in the living room, having jumped from her seated position on the couch, but being too overwhelmed to move any farther. She looked quite a bit older than the younger version of her that he had become used to seeing. Her hair was a duller aqua, but her eyes were just as bright.

"Trunks!" The word was breathless, her eyes wild with disbelief. "Oh, thank God!" The paralysis was overcome by elation, and she closed the distance between them at a sprint. She sobbed into his shoulder, arms wrapped around him tightly, desperately. He hugged her back, accepting, absorbing her hysterics silently. "I heard explosions – I thought it was over!"

"It is over, mother." He pulled away from her, so she could see the truth of it in his face. His eyes – so much like her own – swam with an impossible mix of emotion. Then she beamed, cupping his face, kissing his cheeks, his forehead.

"You did it?"

Trunks' teeth shown as his lips jerked into a reluctant, though triumphant grin.

Bulma screamed. She jumped. She sprang from him, throwing her fists in the air, yelling, laughing, sobbing. He joined her and they celebrated.

That night, Bulma used the last of the tea bags to steep two calming cups of tea in observance of their victory. It was a small comfort, and it was more than the could afford in this world. Trunks was glad for the soothing warmth. They were quiet now, Bulma shrouded in an old blanket and Trunks wearing baggy sweats and a navy hoodie. The sound of the generator hummed in the background, though the naked bulb above the dining room table flickered occasionally. The power grid had failed years ago, but his mother was an able engineer.

Trunks was staring into his chipped cup, thinking about the work ahead; it was time to rebuild, and there was so much to do, it was difficult to even choose a place to start. He supposed the house was most practical. There hadn't been working cleaning bots or hired hands since he was a boy, and a very small one at that. Only the rooms they used were livable, though dingy, with peeling paint and remnants of broken things scattered around. Papers, pictures and broken frames, broken glass from shattered windows. The tremors following some of the worst explosions had shaken things from the walls, shelves, cupboards, and cabinets, eventually becoming so constant that he and his mother stopped picking it all up. There were worse rooms, too, in the wings of the mansion they hadn't bothered with since his grandparents had passed. There, mold clung to the walls, and sometimes the smell made him wonder just exactly what was rotting.

Across the table, Bulma sipped her tea and stole glances at her boy from under her lashes. With his eyes so distant and his mouth compressed into that serious line, he looked very much like his father. As if twisting on a faucet, a strange emotion flooded her, and she remembered the way Vegeta's stern face looked as he turned from the moonlight that illuminated the contours of his features and glowered at her. "What?" He had demanded.

"What?" Trunks demanded, and she realized she had been staring. Bulma hugged herself absently, cracking a little smile.

"Well?" She sighed finally, and with a whimsical tone, she wondered "How were they?"

Trunks took a moment and a deep breath to unpack the question.


End file.
